


Memory Found.

by EzraScarlet246



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bromance, Complete, F/M, Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Scott McCall/Malia Tate, Love, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski centric, recovered memory, season 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-19 23:16:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9464846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EzraScarlet246/pseuds/EzraScarlet246
Summary: Scott, Malia and Lydia have spent a lot of long hours trying to figure out ways to get Stiles back from the ghost riders. None of them even considered the idea, however, that he might not want to be saved.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so first of all you should know that I started writing this after the second episode of season 6 came out, so I only had two episodes and a trailer to go on which is why a lot of what's in here deviates from canon. Also, before anyone gets on me for there not being enough Lydia in this story, let me explain. I do ship Stydia, yes, but I also ship Stalia and also sometimes Sciles, and I felt that Stiles and Lydia's relationship was getting more than enough screen time, so I'd go for something different. Also, I personally feel that Malia doesn't get enough credit for how she handles the whole "Lydia Martin and Stiles are in love" shtick and never got full closure, so this is also my effort to give that to her. Also, I feel that whilst romantic relationships are important, brother and family connections are just as important which is why Scott and Stiles love is the center of this story. Hopefully you don't get too confused because of the way this story is written, there's a lot going on. Anyways, hope you enjoy, and please review!
> 
> P.s-Italics indicate that it is either a memory, inner thought, or there is emphasis on that word.

When Mason finally wakes, he’s being roughly shoved off the back of a horse and onto cold hard pavement.

His shoulder hits the floor painfully, and he gives a small groan in discomfort. Distantly, he hears the clip clop of a horse's hooves, and the smack of a whip. Slowly he opens his eyes, before quickly closing them again against the light, hand coming to his forehead to ward off the oncoming headache he can feel blooming.

“Fuck” he moans out, rolling onto his back. A large part of him wants to just lie there forever and not get back up, but he knows he shouldn’t. There’s a quiet hum of voices all around him that are all slowly increasing in volume, and he has to resist the urge to shush them.

_ Sleep,  _ his traitorous mind cooes.  _ Shut up,  _ he snipes back.

“Yeah,” a voice from somewhere above him says, “You’ll probably be feeling like shit for a little while.”

Debating whether or not it would be rude to simply just ignore the person, Mason eventually decides that he probably needs as many friends as possible. Besides, there is something vaguely familiar about the voice, and the more curious side of him wants to know.

Wrenching his eyes open, the first thing he sees is a cracked ceiling with a dim light hanging precariously above. Rolling his head in the general direction of the voice, he is greeted with furrowed eyebrows and a mouth set into a thin line of concern.

“You alright?” the person asks.

Rolling onto his side, he pushes himself up off the ground so that he is sitting, and gives the person in front of him a small nod.

"Yeah, fine.” He says. “A little sore though.”

Seeming to almost ignore his last statement, the person’s eyes suddenly brighten and a strained but happy smile lights his face. Lurching forward, the stranger envelops him in a tight, almost desperate hug, and he tenses at the contact. Just as he’s considering thumping the person upside the head however, he’s being released from the embrace, and the persons happy face fills his vision.

“Thank God you’re here Mason. Not that it doesn’t suck that you’ve been captured and most likely forgotten by everyone you love and care about, but if I have to listen to one more miserably boring rant about how exactly Peter’s going to take over the world, I might just kill myself.”

A cold chill settles in his spine, and horror overtakes him.

_ The Wild Hunt doesn’t just take people. It erases them. _

God, no. No no no no.

Something in his face must give him away, because the happy expression on the stranger's face falls so suddenly, and he feels like the scum of the world because he knows he’s the one who put it there.

“You don’t know who I am.” The person whispers softly, hands falling from where they had rested on his shoulders. “You don’t remember me?” He asks quietly, and the desperate, almost broken edge in the person's voice has Mason wanting to do anything he can to erase it.

Instead, he averts his eyes, and pushes out a quiet “No.”

The person draws in a sharp breath, and stands quickly from where he had originally knelt. There’s a hopelessness that’s entered the person’s eyes, almost a crushing defeat. However, as Mason watches, something in the person’s eyes hardens, almost strengthens, fists clenching at sides. Drawing in a deep breath, the stranger shuts his eyes, hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose as if he were in deep thought.

“Okay, fuck, alright, Mason doesn’t remember me, yet Peter does. Why? According to Peter, we were taken around the same time, so maybe the Ghost Riders didn’t bother to erase us from each others memories? But does this mean that even once we’re taken our memories aren’t returned to us? I mean, since Mason doesn’t remember me that must be the case, but-”

“Hey!” Mason interrupts, rising to his feet to stand in front of the person, and it’s only now that Mason realizes that this stranger ( _ no, not stranger _ ) is roughly the same age as him. The person snaps out of his semi-hysteric monologue to look at him, looking almost irritated by the interruption.

“What?” The other teen snaps.

Holding his hands out in a placating manner, he considers his next words carefully. “Look, you obviously know me, but I obviously don’t know you, which means you’re either a stalker, or you were erased by the Wild Hunt from my mind. If we’re gonna go with the assumption that you’re not a stalker, then that must mean you’re someone I knew. Am I correct so far?”

The person gives a small, hesitant nod.

“Okay then.” Mason says. “Well, knowing this, maybe you can tell me your name? It could jog some things for me maybe? Besides, I’d really like to call you something other than ‘person’ in my internal monologue, okay?”

He receives a small snort of amusement for his attempt at levity, and Mason is relieved to see that some of the panic leaves the other boys face. Finally, with a small huff, as if he can’t quite believe what he’s doing, the teen gives Mason a dry smile and offers his hand.

“I’m Stiles, Stiles Stilinski”

Completely forgetting about the now christened Stiles outstretched hand, he grabs the other teen by the shoulders, eyes widening dramatically.

“Wait, as in  _ the  _ Stiles?”

“Uh” Stiles splutters, confusion in every line of his face, “the one and only? You’re kinda sending me mixed signals here, do you remember me or not dude?’

Realizing that he might have come off a bit strongly, he hurriedly releases Stiles shoulders and coughs awkwardly.

“Sorry man, it’s just that Scott, Malia and Lydia have been going on and on about someone named Stiles and how they need to get this person back. It’s just nice to finally put a face to the name. For the longest time I was somewhat convinced you didn’t even exist and they had just dreamed you up or something. Glad to see that’s not the case.”

Something in Stiles's expression inexplicably softens and warm at that, and now there is hope once more within his expression, as if he can’t quite believe that he could ever be this lucky.

“They remember me?” Stiles asks, a vulnerable lilt to his voice.

“Well,” Mason hesitates, “No, not completely I don’t think. But snatches, little pieces here and there. Enough to know that they miss you, at least.”

A love is reflected in Stiles eyes, a fierce protectiveness and willingness to do anything for his friends that Mason recognized. A watery smile broke across his face, eyes shining with suppressed tears.

“Yeah,” he chokes out through watery chuckles, “I miss them too.”

Mason smiles at the obvious happiness reflected on Stiles face, feeling himself warming at the sight.

“How are they?” Stiles asks.

Mason considers the question for a small while, trying to think about how to best answer that him.

“They’re okay, alive. It’s been tough, the Riders are strong, but I know we’re stronger. Besides, if I know Liam, and I do, he’ll be searching everywhere for me, like Scott is for you. They’ll find us.”

And, as Mason says it, he realizes that it’s true. There’s a bone deep certainty residing in his body that’s familiar and safe, filling him with to the brim.

“Well, isn’t this just chummy?” A voice drawls from behind Stiles. Stiles doesn’t turn to face the voice though, eyes instead flickering to the ceiling as if to ask  _ why me. _

From behind a pillar of stone walks out an attractive middle aged man. He wears a black leather jacket, hair artfully disheveled and blue eyes glinting mischievously. Something in Mason, despite the man's good looks, tenses at the sight of him.

Stiles, however, simply rolls his eyes, exasperation in every line of his face as he half turns to face the man. “Of all the people in the world to get stuck in an abandoned train station with” Stiles says, hands moving as if to emphasize his words, “I get stuck with the evil villain who doesn’t know when to shut up! And who even uses the word ‘chummy’ any more you old man!”

If anything, Stiles words don’t offend the man as Mason thinks they very well should, but seem to almost amuse him as his mouth curls up into a smirk.

“Oh Stiles. You know you can never get rid of me, and besides, I thought we’d established quite a good relationship over the years, or was that just me?”

“Yes!” Stiles said wildly, hands gesturing manically now and drawing the attention of those nearby, “it is definitely just you, and there is no relationship here whatsoever, you hear me you creepy old zombie werewolf? Nothing!”

Rant seemingly finished, Stiles stands there panting for a second, face angry and red.

“So, uh.” Mason says, “I’m guessing there’s some bad history here? And are you someone else I should remember? Or-”

“Nope, no, you don’t know him and you won’t need to know him. He’s Peter Hale, resident evil asshole who just won’t fucking die no matter how hard we try to kill him.”

“Oh” Mason says, drawing out the word. He’s not really sure what else to say.

“But don’t worry about Mr Creeper Wolf right now Mason, I have questions for you.” Stiles says, attention turning to him. Something (Maybe the dangerous glint in Stiles's eyes) tells Mason that he’s in for a long ride. Mason gets the feeling that Stiles isn’t a very patient person, and so because of this Mason decides that if he’s about to be interrogated he might as well be comfortable, promptly sitting himself on one of the many benches nearby and letting his shoulders sag.

“Ask away.” Mason prompts, waving his hand airily as if to say “get on with it”. And so, with Peter hovering ominously in the corner of both of their vision, Mason begins to answer Stiles questions. At first, Mason is slightly put off by the seemingly random and endless direction Stiles questions seem to be taking, but a quick glance at the small exasperated expression on Peter’s face tells him it’s normal. Mason tells him about Malia (Stiles face screws with worry when he hears about her control issues, her lack of anchor), Lydia (There’s a small bright spot in Stiles eyes when Mason talks about her, and not for the first time Mason wonders how they fit into each others lives), and Scott (And here is when Stiles whole expression seems to crumple with pain. “Who is he to you?” Mason asks after seconds of quiet deliberation. There’s a minute of silence, in which Stiles seems to be deciding how to answer, before he tentatively whispers, “My best friend.” Something in the way Stiles casts his glance to the floor hints at there being more to it than that, a deeper connection, but Mason doesn’t push. He knows best friends, knows how a lot of the time they can feel like some comfortable combination of sidekick and brother, life partner and college roommate, beginning and end. So Mason doesn’t push, because he knows).

Eventually, Mason begins to answer all questions on automatic, not even hearing the words he’s saying or the questions he’s being asked. Stiles just keeps asking, and Mason keeps answering, and Peter keeps trying to dig a persistent bit of wax out of his ear, and around and around and around and-

“Wait, what?”

Mason pauses, and for the first time in a while returns back into his surroundings. First he sees Peter, who’s eyebrows are raised in surprise and wonder. Stiles is a different matter altogether. His eyes are wide, his face pale and gaunt. His hands are paused in the air as if he were cut off mid rant, and they shake.

Mason swallows nervously. “Umm, sorry, what was I saying?”

“My Dad, the Sheriff. I asked about him. What did you say?”

“Umm, well, your Dad is fine, as is your Mum, and-”

“My Mum?”

“Yeah, your Mum? Or at least I’m assuming she is, seeing as her and the Sheriff have been married for years, so unless your Dad was getting naughty or something, which I highly doubt-”

“What’s her name?”

Stiles voice is biting and sharp, cutting across Mason. Mason rolls his eyes. “Why are you asking me? She’s your Mum, not mine-”

_ “Tell me her name.” _ And now there is nothing friendly about that voice, no tone of camaraderie that had been there before, only a deep sense of anxiety and pain, the kind Mason has never heard in his life and never wants to hear again. Stiles eyes are wide and terrified, threatening to spill over with unshed tears. There’s an echo deep within Masons heart that tells him to lie, that despite not knowing what could have possibly set him off, the truth to Stiles question could very well destroy him.

_ Lie,  _ his subconscious whispers,  _ it would be so much kinder. _

Instead however, voice shaky and full of gravel, he pushes out the name.

“Claudia.”

And watches Stiles world come crashing down around him.

* * *

 

The memories are broken, fragmented.

_ (Scott, I-) _

No matter how hard he tries, how long he ponders over the remnants of  _ something _ , he can never seem to remember him. All he has are pieces of a relationship that once was.

_ (You still have-) _

With the grainy voice overs, come images. Disembodied pale limbs attached to a figure that he can’t quite seem to place the face too. Flannel shirts chucked into a pile of laundry in the corner of a bedroom covered wall to wall with posters faded by the daylight.

_ (I’m literally going out of my freakin-) _

Lydia had said it was the same for her. That her memories of this person  _ (Stiles)  _ that they are all missing were jumbled, confusing, lined (for her) with suppressed feelings of affection and endearment. But the hesitant edge to which she had said  _ “I think I loved him”  _ had Scott wondering just what kind of person could have made Lydia Martin, of all people, make such a face.

_ (Personally, I’m a fan of just ignoring a problem until eventually-) _

Malia’s memories are more intimate, hands stroking lightly across her stomach, slow methodic circles that fill her with love and trust, and long nights pressed up against a warm back that smelt of citrus and home. In a show of uncommon vulnerability, she even admitted to feeling as if she had somehow lost part of herself.

Scott doesn’t know how to tell her that he feels the same.

But, Lydia had found them now. She had found them all ( _ Who?) _ , lead them to an abandoned train station deep underground that seemed almost seconds away from falling down around them. Scott had refused to let her enter with them though, taking in the rickety nature of the tunnel they were about to enter into and deciding that if it fell, she wouldn’t survive. Lydia had pursed her lips in annoyance and looked ready to argue for a second, but Scott had briefly flashed his eyes and that’s all it had taken.

“Wait here,” he says, trying to inject some kind of order into his sentence without actually making it sound like an order, “we’ll send them out to you once we find them. Call me if anything happens.”

_ (What if it saves you? What if-) _

And now, Scott’s running, beating the cracked pathway with his worn chucks that he’s never quite had the chance  _ (money) _ to replace. Because he can feel him, feel the nagging headache at the back of his mind that seems to almost be ready to burst, and he is so ready to remember. So  ready to get his friend  _ (His best friend) _ back, to fill the void he’s left.

_ “Right now”, Scott recalls Lydia saying, hushed and hurried, “all those who have been taken are in an inbetween state. Only when they’ve been forgotten once and for all will they disappear for good. To bring them back, you’ve got to pull them across the veil, and into our plane of existence. According to the research Deaton and I found then, and only then, will all our memories be returned to us.” _

_ “And there’s no other way for us to regain all our memories? None at all?” _

_ “Well,” Lydia said, hesitantly, “a strong surge of emotion connected to the person you’re trying to remember could bring them back, but there’s no guarantee. And we don’t have the time to wait for that kind of thing.” _

Malia’s next to him, legs pumping just as hard and fast as his are, eyes flickering dangerously as she tries desperately to control the shift. On her back, sits a frightened Corey.

_ (I wanna help, you know? But I can’t do the things-) _

“Corey, are we there yet?” Scott asks, coming to a halt. The younger boy falls ungracefully off of Malia’s back, who doesn’t even spare him a glance.

“Gi-gimme a sec” Corey manages to stutter out. Kneeling to the floor, he places one hand to the ground, his chameleon powers taking over and causing him to disappear.

_ “Okay”, Scott had said, mulling over Lydia’s words, _ “ _ I get that bit. But how are we supposed to pull them back through the veil then?” _

Malia and Scott wait for a bit, listening to the wind howling in through the cracks of the of the poorly constructed station. A tunnel stretches over their heads, continuing on for what seemed to be miles, a few flickering fluorescent lights embedded into the ceiling throwing the whole place into an eerie glow.

“I see them!” Corey shouts, still invisible, but voice laced with obvious glee. “There’s something like a force field around them, let me just-”

_ "Schrodinger's cat.” She had said, voice laced with bitter amusement, “Once you open the box, two possibilities are reduced to one. So, what do you need to do, Scott?” _

_ “Open the box.” _

And suddenly, hundreds of people fill the room in front of them, all staring at them in various degrees of bewilderment. Standing between them and the throes of people is a quivering wall of ethereal blue light. Corey, who has rematerialized, has his hand pressed firmly against the wall, as if he’s the only thing stopping it from disappearing forever. A silence fills the room as both parties continue to stare in shock at each other.

“Who are you?” one person manages to shout across the veil.

_ (No matter what happens, stick to the-) _

“Are you here to save us?” questions another.

_ (And I can’t hurt-) _

And then, almost as if a dam has been broken, questions are coming from all sides, being flung at them in high speed, a drowning cacophony of noise. Scott puts his hands up as if to fend off the questions, but they don’t stop, a the noise keeps growing louder and louder until Scott almost has to block his ears to protect himself from it, and-

“Everybody be quiet!”

And then, there he is, breaking through the crowd and shoving them to the side as he fights to be seen. His limbs flail around him desperately, and something in Scott pulls in remembrance. Because though Scott might not fully remember him, who this person is to him, he will always remember that voice that always seems to be thrumming with constant anxiety.

“Stiles?” Scott says, and hates how the name seems to roll of his tongue as more a question than a statement.

The person stops from where he is currently glaring at an older man with dangerous blue eyes, and turns to face him. Instantly upon sight of them, the boys face softens, and something in Scott swells at the sight.

“Yeah, Scotty. It’s me.”

And at the confirmation, the final reassurance that  _ yes, this person does exist,  _ Scott is helpless to stop himself from running towards Stiles, Malia close behind. So excited is he to see this person  _ (Acquaintance? Friend? Best Friend? Brother?) _ , he doesn’t notice the way Stiles eyes widen dramatically, hand rising in caution.

“Scott, wait-”

And promptly he slams into the veil, bouncing off dramatically with a small grunt of pain. Malia had been fortunate enough to pause right before he hit, and picks him up off the ground.

“You okay?” Malia asks, searching him up and down for any kind of injury.

“Fine.” He groans out through clenched teeth.

“Sorry about that bud. I tried to warn you.” Stiles says, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, before looking in exasperation at the veil separating them, “I’m pretty sure the veil only works one way. You’ve brought us back into existence because of Corey’s power, now all we have to do is cross the threshold.”

“How do you know all this?” Corey asks suspiciously. “You’ve been trapped down here this entire time, there can’t have been much opportunities to research.”

At this, Stiles rolls his eyes dramatically, before jerking his head in the direction of the older man with blue eyes.

“Peter over there is a walking encyclopedia of weirdness and supernatural. Also, Mason helped. Between the three of us, it wasn’t so hard to put together.”

From the way Stiles talks about the other two people he mentions, Scott’s probably supposed to remember them. Looking at their faces though, he finds nothing. Malia though, has taken a slow step towards the veil, and is looking at the older man with something like caution and yet also hope flickering in her eyes.

“Do I...know you?” Malia whispers, words scared and small. The older man (Peter, Stiles had said), looks at her for a second, his face a large combination of loss and want. Peter goes to take a step forward, hand outstretched. He is quickly cut off by Stiles stepping in front of him, hand raised.

“Not another step.” Stiles says, voice low and dangerous.

Peter tears his eyes away from Malia, his eyes flickering blue and the glare on his face telling Scott he is just seconds away from ripping Stiles throat out. But Stiles doesn’t waver, shoulders strong and arm steady where it is raised.

“We talked about this. I make sure Scott and the rest don’t rip you apart once they remember who you are, and you get the _ fuck _ out of Beacon Hills and leave us  _ and _ Malia alone. Capiche?”  

Peter’s glare doesn’t falter, but something in his eyes does back down, and next thing Scott knows his eyes have flickered back to their original colour and he’s stepping back. Scott relaxes slowly, feeling the claws that had subconsciously sprung up retract back into his fingers. He sees Malia do the same. Corey is not paying attention to any of the theatrics happening in front of him, choosing instead to focus on a teenager, _ (Mason, Stiles had said) _ , with a thoughtful frown on his face.

“Well,” drawls a voice from the crowd of people still watching, “Not that this isn’t entertaining and all, but would you kindly mind telling us how to get the fuck  _ out  _ of here please?”

Stiles for a second looks like he wants to strangle whoever just spoke, hands coming up in exasperation and totally destroying the cool, calm and collected persona he had worn moments before.

_ (I say we chloroform the little bastard and throw him into the-) _

“Okay,” Scott says, trying to be the voice of reason, “Everyone, one at a time needs to walk through the veil. Right now, Corey’s the only things keeping you guys in existence” Scott gestures over to Corey still with his hand placed on the veil, who gives a little wave, “which is why you need to come through one by one. Too many at one time could put too much strain on Corey, and he could lose you. So, everyone in a line please.”

At his words, people scramble to form a line. Scott sees Stiles and Mason herding the children to the front, and beating back those who try to push their way forward.

“Wait your turn man,” Stiles says to a particularly belligerent, large white man who looks like he stepped out of a biker gang. Scott names him Ugly in his head. “We get the children and the old people out first, and then the woman and men.”

 

“I ain’t waiting for no bitches to go in before me!” Ugly says around a large amount of spit. “I ain't staying here no longer, you here me? Nah, I’d rather kill y’all than stay here, you pieces of shit-”

Without warning, or certainly none that Scott can see, Stiles jabs Ugly quickly in the nose with a well placed punch. Ugly goes back stumbling for a second, hand coming up to stem his bleeding nose. Before Ugly can retaliate however, Stiles is upon him again, and with another quick punch, Stiles has knocked Ugly out.

Scott gives a long, high whistle in appreciation. “Dude.”

“Yeah, well.” Stiles says sheepishly, shaking his now bloody wrist. “Had to learn to protect myself sometime, didn’t I?”

_ (I’m 147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bones, sarcasm is my only-) _

“Yeah.” Scott replies softly.

“Can we hurry up already?” Corey suddenly speaks up, looking tired. “I don’t know how much longer I can hold this thing okay, so leave the bromance for later guys.”

“Right,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes, “Okay, kids, go forth!!!”

Seeming to be almost buzzing with excitement at finally escaping, the first child walks through the barrier without a hitch, and Scott catches the little girl in his arms. “Are you okay?” He asks her gently. Looking up at him, she gives a little nod. Satisfied, Scott waves the next child through. One by one, they each cross the veil, bodies shimmering into existence. Soon the children and older people are all through, and they are starting on the woman and men. As people burst through the veil, memories explode through Scott’s mind, neighbors, people he recognized from the shop, children he saw attending the primary school.

His legs shook with the effort not to collapse. To his right, he saw Malia in a similar state of distress. Corey, however, seemed to be the most worse of them all, face pale and sweat dripping down his forehead. Where his hand was pressed up against the veil, Scott could see blood, and his hands shook at an alarming rate.

“Corey, you alright?”

Corey casts a strained look in Scott’s direction.

“Hurry.” Is all he says.

Anxiety increasing, Scott waves the line of people through, faster and faster, trying to ignore the pounding of new  _ (old?)  _ memories in his head as he goes. He tries not to snort when Stiles simply rolls Ugly through the barrier with a well placed couple of kicks with his foot, and fails.

Eventually, there is only three people left on the other side of the barrier, and a large crowd of people surrounding Scott, Malia and Corey on their side.

“All of you,” Scott addresses the crowd, “follow the tunnel until you get to the entrance. There’ll be a girl waiting for you there with red  _ (actually it’s strawberry blonde-)  _ hair. Listen to whatever she says, she’s with us.”

For a second, they do nothing except stare at him, as if hesitant to leave. Finally however, they turn away, trudging their way down the tunnel. Two men even squat down to lift Ugly up by the shoulders, and drag him after. Finally, after the darkness has encased them all, Scott turns back to the veil.

He feels something inside of him tense at the sight of them.  _ This is all too easy,  _ a small part of him whispers,  _ somethings bound to go wrong. _

Scott choses to ignore the voice.

“Okay, your guys turn now. Come on through.”

“Yes, and if you could do that quickly, please and thank you.” Comes Corey’s strained voice. With only a single moment more of deliberation, Mason strides through the veil, and stops by where Corey stands. Immediately, the memories crash into him, hard and painful. He turns to Corey, expecting him to be even more strained. However, despite yes looking more tired, Corey’s face is now alight with life and love, staring adoringly into Mason’s eyes, who stares back with just as much feeling. Then, guilt crushes Corey’s features, eyes closing in pain and tears streaming down his face.

“I forgot you.” He chokes out. “I-I can’t believe it, I-I’m so sorry Mason, God I’m so-”

But Corey is cut off by Mason with a quick, yet meaningful kiss. When it’s done, Mason pulls back to look at Corey.

“It’s okay. It’s not your fault. We’ll talk about this later I promise, but for now let's get the other two here, okay?”

Lips pursed, Corey nods in fierce determination. “Who’s next?” He says sharply. “Let's get on with it. Your cutting into making out time with my boyfriend.”

Malia snorts a little at that, as does Mason, but Scott knows that it’s only an act, can see that Corey's skin is starting to turn ashen, and looks to Stiles and Peter.

They aren’t looking at them, but instead at each other. They say no words, and yet a whole conversation seems to be happening between the two of them. After what seems and age, something like understanding seems to pass between them, before Peter’s shoulders sag in defeat. Leaning close, Peter says something to Stiles that put a small, grim smile on his face. Something inside Scott twists at the sight, pulls and tugs and nags at his mind, tells him  _ something is wrong _ , but he can’t concentrate on that because all of a sudden Peter has crossed the veil and there’s another painful burst of memories in his mind.

Scott lets out a small whimper of pain, and distantly he hears Stiles frantically asking him and Malia if they’re okay. Amongst the memories of darkness and hurt and anguish though, he finds anger, and suddenly his eyes are red and his teeth are out.

“You.” Scott snarls, advancing slowly on Peter. “How in the  _ fuck  _ did you get out of Eichen House!?”

“Well,” Peter says nervously, “funny story, there I was, minding my own business, when-”

But Scott doesn’t care. With a roar, he’s on Peter in seconds, fists raining down and battering at the man who had destroyed his life, and he’s just so  _ angry- _

“Scott, stop!”

He comes up short, fist inches away from breaking Peter’s jaw. Lowering his fist in surprise, he looks at Stiles, whose hands are outstretched towards him in panic.

“Why? Why should I stop? After everything he’s done to me, why should I?” The question is directed at Stiles, but the answer comes from behind.

“Because he’s my father.”

And suddenly, he remembers  _ exactly _ who Peter is, past the revenge and psychoticism, past the horrible things in his past, and  _ remembers.  _ Fist falling to his side, he climbs unsteadily off of Peter, legs shaky. Malia makes her way to his side, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. After checking that he’s fine, she makes her way slowly over to Peter, hand coming down to encase his. From this distance, Scott can just make out the black veins running up her arms as she drains the pain from him. Groggily, Peter opens his swollen eyes, taking a second to focus on her. When he does, a small smile pulls at his split lip.

“Malia.” Peter croaks out.

Something ugly curls in his gut at the sight.

“Hey,” Stiles says, voice soft and full of understanding. “I know, I understand. Fuck, I hate him probably as much as you do. But Scott, you’re not me. You’re a better person than me, an amazing person. Don’t let him taint you.”

Tears escape the corners of his eyes at that, werewolf features disappearing. And now, he doesn’t care about Peter, who he is. All he cares about is Stiles, his best friend, who he wants to take in his arms and never, ever let go of.

Wiping hastily at his eyes, he gestures jerkily at Stiles.

“C’mon then. Your turn.”

Stiles takes a deep breath, air rattling unsteadily through his lungs, and breathes out.

“No.”

For a second, Scott can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“Stop being ridiculous. Get over here, you idiot.”

But Stiles face isn’t joking, isn’t hinting at humour at all. There’s a broken agony in it, expression haunted, but at the same time, there’s a determination and stubborn set to his jaw that has Scott’s stomach sinking with fear.

“No.” Stiles says slowly, deliberately, as if the word itself is physically hurting him.

“Stop kidding around Stiles, walk through the damn veil.”

“No.”

“Walk through the _ fucking  _ veil, Stiles!”

“I’m sorry Scott, but I can’t.”

“Well why,” and Scott is growling now, eyes red and fierce, “the  _ hell  _ not?”

“Because of my Mom.”

And that, that stops Scott short.

_ (Panic attack, actually. I used to get them when my Mom-) _

Scott shakes his head, trying to dislodge the memory. “Wha-what are you on about dude? You’ve gotta come out before you can see your Mom. And your Dad as well. They both miss you Stiles. Please come out.”

And if the last sentence sounds a bit like a plea, than nobody comments on it.

“Stiles, please.” And now Malia has joined Scott’s side, hands wrapped tightly around herself. “You have to come out Stiles. We need you.  _ I  _ need you.”

Stiles expression, so determined before, crumples at that, hand coming up to drag a shaky hand down his weary face.

“If you knew what you were asking of me, Malia, you wouldn’t be asking.”

“Then  _ tell _ us, goddammit!” And now all softness has left Malia’s features, replaced with an angry snarl that seems to envelop her entire face. “Tell us what’s keeping you here, and maybe we can fix it!”

But Stiles doesn’t rise to her anger, doesn’t respond in kind. Instead, he looks away from Malia’s desperate eyes, shaking jaw, and turns to Scott.

“You know why.” Stiles whispers, voice solemn. “Don’t you Scott?”

But Scott can’t hear,  _ won’t  _ hear, refuses to let the memories come that will answer this question, because some part of him fears that the moment he regains these memories is the moment he loses his best friend forever.

“Please don’t do this Stiles.” He pleads, voice broken and head pounding.

“It’s okay, Scott. It’s okay.”

And then, as if it were waiting permission, in a sudden, intense burst of noise and light from behind his eyes that make his head feel as though it were about to implode, the memories come soaring back.

_ He’s four, small, and quiet, sitting in the primary school sandbox, hair flopping over his eyes. Every attempt to blow it out of his vision ends with it back exactly where it started, so he’s stopped bothering. _

_ “I can tie it up for you if you want?” Asks a decidedly timid voice from behind. Scott turns to face the voice, taking in the other boys appearance. He has large ears that stick out, pale skin dotted with moles, and hair obscured by a hat too large for his head. _

_ “Like, a girl?” Scott asks, face scrunching up at the thought. _

_ Seemingly pleased to have gotten any kind of reply at all, the other boy bounces up to Scott’s side, smile stretching across his face so wide it looks like it might even hurt. _

_ “Well, I mean if you wanna think of it like that? Or a surfer, maybe? I don’t know, I just think you’d look pretty cool with your hair tied back. besides, my Mom is a girl and she’s pretty cool so why wouldn’t you wanna look like her, eh?” _

_ Scott looks at the other boy for a moment, his face scrunching up in thought. _

_ “You’re right,” Scott finally decides with a little nod, “If I tie my hair up I get to look like my Mum and she’s really cool as well, she brought me a lollipop the other day! Though,” and here Scott pauses, “I’m not really supposed to talk to strangers.” _

_ “Well,” the kid exclaims, practically a ray of sunshine now as he goes to sit behind Scott, stubby fingers grappling with Scott’s hair to pull it back into a bunch, “I can fix that. My name is-” _

_ He’s nine and tired and scared. His father is flinging slurred words full of toxic acid at his mother, and he’s sitting in the closet, knees pulled to his chest and rocking in a slow, rhythmic motion. Fumbling fingers reach into his pocket, pulling out a cell phone, hand shaking. He doesn’t even bother punching in the number, just hits speed dial and waits.  _

_ The phone rings once, twice, three times before it’s picked up. _

_ “Scott?” comes a groggy voice from the other line. “What’s up?” _

_ Immediately at the sound of his voice, a calm enters Scott’s heart, warming it. Scott doesn’t answer, just breathes harshly into the phone and tries to compose himself. _

_ “Scott?” Stile’s sounds worried now, frantic almost, “You’re scaring me dude, you better answer, or I swear to Lydia I’ll hang up.” _

_ That surprises a small snort out of Scott, the noise sounding suspiciously wet. _

_ “I’m pretty sure that’s not how the saying goes, man.” Scott laughs out, hands beginning to steady and smile feeling almost genuine. The sound of his parents downstairs has faded into background noise, small and insignificant compared to the sound of his best friends ranting over the phone about why swearing to Lydia is perfectly appropriate, because she is a goddess herself. If Stile’s hears the suspicious snuffles Scott makes whenever he laughs, he doesn’t mention it, because he knows already, and not for the first time is Scott so glad to have a friend like Stile’s who makes saying goodbye so hard. And so Scott listens as Stile’s rants on and on about Lydia and lacrosse and that jerk Jackson who sits next to him in class and- _

_ He’s eleven, and empty, and mourning. He sits quietly next to his Mum on plastic chairs set out in a circle around a large hole in the ground that is deeper than he is tall. The tie he wears chaffs uncomfortably around his neck, but he doesn’t fidget. People stand up, speak, cry, sit back down, but despite all of this happening Scott can’t find it within himself to care about any of them except for his best friend. _

_ Stile’s sits to the right of him, facing the casket as it sits suspended over the hole by four large ropes. Sheriff Stilinski sits next to him, hand clutching the back of Stile’s neck in a hold that is equally loving and protective. _

_ So far, Stile’s hasn’t shed a single tear. Instead, he only continues to stare blankly at the casket, even as it’s being slowly lowered into the ground. Not knowing what to do, Scott simply leans into Stile’s, hand clasping his shoulder tightly, trying to convey the love he has through this simple gesture. For a few seconds, Stile’s doesn’t acknowledge him, continuing to stare forward, mouth pressed in a grim line. _

_ One tear at a time, though, Stile’s expression crumples. _

_ It’s slow at first, a single drop down cheeks that are hollow and pale. But then, the one tear is joined by a second, third, and suddenly Stile’s face is turned towards Scott and filled with such anguish and loneliness that Scott feels something in him break at the sight. _

_ “I miss my Mom, Scott.” Stile’s whispers, voice hoarse from disuse. _

_ Scott’s hand joins the Sheriffs at the back of Stile’s neck, resting his forehead on the side of Stile’s head, and breathes in heavily as his tears break through and drip to the ground. _

_ “I know, Stile’s. But you still got me.” _

Scott jolts back into consciousness roughly, taking stumbling steps back as he gasps for breath. Malia is instantly at his side, face contorted in worry.

“I’m okay.” Scott manages. “I’m fine.”

“I’m not.” Croaks Corey, who is now leaning heavily against Mason and looks seconds away from passing out

“You don’t look fine!” Stile’s shouts, ignoring Corey, and still, Scott notes with a large amount of annoyance, behind the veil. “You looked like you were about to collapse!”

“Yeah, well, I was remembering a few things.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I was remembering everything, in fact.”

Something in Stiles simultaneously uncoils and tenses when he hears that, face weary with trepidation.

“So,” he says slowly, as if measuring the weight of his words, “you know why I’m doing this then?”

“No.”

“Scott,” and now Stiles sounds tired, as if he knew this was going to happen but wanted to hope anyways, “If my Mom is only alive because I’ve been erased from existence, then there’s a high chance that if I come back into existence, she’ll disappear again, and then that means-”

“Nothing! It means nothing, Stiles, or at least nothing we can prove anyways! For all we know, that might not even be your Mom!”

“If there’s even the smallest chance-”

“If she really  _ is  _ your Mom, than she would tell you to  _ stop _ being such a self sacrificing  _ idiot  _ and to get your skinny white ass over here  _ now! _ ”

Stiles stands there flabbergasted, jumping slightly at the sudden intervention by Malia, and Scott will admit that even he’s a little surprised. But Malia isn’t looking at him, she’s looking at Stiles, hands balled into tightly curled fists, and there’s a knowledge and pain so powerful in her eyes that Scott almost has to look away.

“You think I don’t know what it’s like, huh? To lose someone you care about and feel responsible for their deaths every single day of your life?”

There’s a look of alarm in Stiles eyes, caught unaware by this sudden turn of events, and it’s then that Scott understands why Stiles had been so unaffected by Scott’s pleas. Stiles knew him, inside and out, knew how he would react and had prepared himself for the eventuality of Scott’s denial.

Obviously, he hadn’t been prepared for Malia’s.

“You think that you can make up for it somehow by disappearing? That if you stay here it’ll all be better? I tried that Stiles, tried running away from my problems for years, but do you wanna know what I learnt?”

And now, Malia stands in front of the veil, face inches apart from the glowing blue wall that separates them, eyes angry and eyebrows furrowed. Stiles stares back, transfixed.

“We don’t get to decide whether our lives are important or not, they do. Whether it should have been us or them, it doesn’t matter,  _ because it was them. _ Those who loved us, they died, we didn’t, and that’s just something-” Malia’s voice breaks, a sob building in her chest, “that’s just something we have to live with.”

In the quiet that follows, Scott can hear Stiles take in deep, heaving breaths, but his expression has lost its previous stubbornness, and instead his jawline wobbles with suppressed emotion. Scott feels himself responding to the plea in his eyes. Stepping us to the veil, Scott outstretches his hand. Stiles eyes it as if it were about it bite him, but steps up as well anyways. Scott can feel it, how close he is to getting his him back, a strange mixture of hope and anxiety thrumming through his veins. Stiles looks to be warring with himself, hand coming up, pausing just before the veil.

“Please, Stiles.” He says, voice sad and desperate and so very, very helpless, “Don’t go where I can’t follow.”

And there, right then, is when Stiles finally decides. Because Scott knows that whilst sometimes Stiles can be an asshole, has a paranoid streak that runs a mile long and frequently tells the world to go screw itself, he would never leave Scott alone.

Trembling, Stiles reaches through the veil, and clasps Scott’s hand in his own.

Scott doesn’t give him a chance to walk through, jerking him roughly through the wall and falling to the ground with Stiles landing haphazardly on top. Over the top of Stiles head, Scott sees Corey withdraw tiredly from the veil and watches as it dissipates into nothingness. But then suddenly, another body is on top of Stiles, and it takes Scott a second to realize that Malia has virtually made a Stiles sandwich and is hugging him fiercely from behind, making pleased noises in the back of her throat..

“Wha-” Stiles spluttered in indignation, “Malia, what the hell-”

But Scott doesn’t give him a chance to protest, instead pulling him down to his chest a wrapping his best friend in a long overdue hug.

“Shut up and take it, dude.” Scott says around tears of joy.

“That’s what she said.” Comes Stiles reply, muffled by Scott’s shirt.

And now, Scott’s laughing, the sound tinged with sharp relief, ringing throughout the tunnel, so full of love and life and relief.

* * *

 

Later, once the ghost riders have been defeated and everyone is saved and Lydia has explained the appearance of Mrs Stilinski (Stiles had stiffened at the subject, but not said a word), Stiles tells everyone about how Scott had won him over with a Lord of the Rings line, and how that made him the Samwise to Stiles’s Frodo.

Scott hadn’t had much of an opportunity to reply before Lydia has taken hold of the front of Stiles shirt and dragged him in for a long, passionate kiss, half of which Stiles spends with his eyes open in shock before he kisses her back. There are cheers and shouts from everyone as they break apart, Liam, Hayden, Mason and Corey wolf whistling whilst the Sheriff and his Mom look on in smug satisfaction. Stiles has an expression on his face like he can’t quite believe what just happened, whilst Lydia looks very pleased with herself, taking a still lost Stiles’s hand in her own.

Scott glances at Malia who sits next to him on the couch, gauging her reaction. Except, there is no hurt and anger there as Scott expected, but instead happiness and affection, almost seeming to glow with it.

Scott thinks she’s never looked so beautiful.

Scott catches Stiles eye and smiles, warmth radiating through every fiber of his being. Stiles returns the smile and nods, love and understanding passing between them.

_ Don’t ever leave me like that again. _

There’s a knowing in Stiles eyes, a warm smile on his lips.

_ Never. _


End file.
